


To Walk the Vir Tanadhal

by NamelessShe



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: After Trespasser, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelessShe/pseuds/NamelessShe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellana Lavellan takes the power from Andruil's orb. Solas disapproves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This was nothing like the Well of Sorrows. There was no pool of strange water. It was an orb. Andruil's orb. The power of the Vir Tanadhal was so much more than just a simple blessing, she realized. 

Her heart hammered in her chest, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. She should have turned back, left her reward unclaimed, because a gift like that didn't come without terrible consequences. But the Well of Sorrow screamed at her, it pleaded, it urged her to reach out.

Touch it. Just once. Just now.

She heard footsteps running towards her. The sentinels had found her. Solas was here. She felt his magic, even before she saw him, she felt it. Even knowing they'd been close behind her hadn't prepared her for the reality. She thought she had more time. 

When she touched the orb, the world seemed to blink out. Her vision went black and all she could do was hold on---power unlike anything she'd ever felt cut through her. It was too much. It was too strong. She couldn't breathe but for the feel of it, burning her from the inside out.

And then, blessed relief. The power settled inside her and the pain was gone. She felt no different than before, but she could sense the change.

"What have you done?" Solas shouted. She glimpsed him from the corner of her eye. His face was a mask of horror, of rage, but she was not afraid.

The orb fell from her hand. It cracked when it hit the ground. Now that the power was gone, it was useless.

The stump that had been her left arm seemed to twitch. The skin burned and stretched, bone pushing through, elongating, growing. Magic lashed around it, her magic---her magic. It formed glowing fingers, a hand, and when the light faded, she was whole again. The hand was her hand. The flesh was her flesh. It moved as she willed it to move.

She fell to her knees. Her stomach lurched. The little she'd managed to choke down earlier almost came rushing back up. She just barely kept it down.

She could hold her bow again. She could hunt. She could fight as she wanted to fight.

The sentinels stopped behind Solas. They stared at her, wary, uncertain. She couldn't blame them for their caution. She didn't know the extent of her new powers, but she could bet she'd give them a good fight.

Solas did not feel the same caution. He pulled her to her feet, his fingers curling not so gently around her upper arm. He pressed his lips to hers in the mockery of a kiss. He was brutal, crushing---she could taste his desperation. His lips parted, his hold softened.

He did not touch the left arm, the new arm. He angled his body away from it as though he was a little afraid it would contaminate him. In Andruil's last days, she was said to have be tainted. Perhaps he thought the taint could be carried through her orb.

Perhaps a week ago, perhaps a day, she would have cared. The Well didn't believe there was any danger. She would trust Mythal's ancient priests before she'd trust Solas again.

When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless.

"How can someone with such a marvelous spirit be so foolish so often?" Solas asked, "Time and time again, you play with forces you can not possibly understand. Why, vhenan? Why?"

"This is your fault, Solas," she said, "If you had left me in peace---" She had begged him. She had pleaded. He had been adamant she return to Skyhold, but how could she? The memories were too strong there. The people she had lost, the death she'd faced---he was cruel to demand it of her.

He had not been able to bring back the world he had lost. He had destroyed the veil. The immortality of the elves had returned. Magic had returned. And when he couldn't restore Mythal, he had gone a little mad.

He thought there was hope to restore the love they had shared. He thought they could be together again. He did not understand.

"Impossible, you know that," he said.

"You walked away before," she said, "It was not impossible then." He should have stayed away. The dead still haunted her. She couldn't forget.

"Things have changed," he said, "I tried to make you understand. It should not have been Andruil. You should not have come here."

She flexed her new fingers, rotated her wrist. She tested the muscles, her tendons. He was still more powerful than she could imagine, but what the orb had given her was enough. The Well whispered its secrets. She could protect her dreams. She could hide her thoughts. He had no way in unless she invited him, and that would never happen again.

The dead outnumbered the living. She could not have said which emotion reigned supreme over her, grief or rage. They were too entwined. How does one even begin to reconcile the truth when their greatest love destroyed the world? How could she even begin to move past the heartache?

"Do not fight me, vhenan," Solas said, "I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I must." There was no doubt in her mind he spoke the truth. He had claimed Mythal's power, Dirthamen's, and she suspected June's power as well. He was more powerful now than the gods had been at the height of their civilization.

The Well cautioned her not to resist. Not yet. She bowed her head for a second.

"Very well," she said, "I will not resist." Solas did not look like he believed her. A testament to how well he knew her, she realized. She almost smiled. Still, the sentinels kept their distance. Abelas looked at her like she was going to crawl out of her skin and eat them alive.

Perhaps later she would. If it came to that. She did not value Solas' ancient sentinels the way he did. They were not any more important than any other elf. She could spill their blood if she had to. Creators knew they had held no qualms about killing her people.

Back when she still had people.

"What is done is done," Solas said, "We will do our best to make the most of this development."

"And what do you propose?" Ellana asked, "Are you going to lock me in the tower until I agree to behave?"

His gaze turned on her, sharp and fast and thunderous. She felt the touch of his mind but nothing more. He could not peel back the layers of her thoughts. He could not read her.

She could not stop herself from smiling.

"Perhaps I should do just that," he said, softly, "Until you are not quite so set on getting yourself killed."

"You will do what you feel is best," she said. And so will I, she thought.


	2. Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold has changed.

Skyhold was not as she remembered. She was grateful for that much, at least.

The repairs had been completed, the banners changed from the Inquisition's sword and eye emblem to Solas' white wolf. Instead of her blue and gold Orlesian silks, the main hall was swathed in green and black and silver. Most of the statues had been ripped out. Only the owls remained, the rest had been replaced with wolves and elves and a few of the strange half elvhen half dragon statues she'd seen in the ancient temples.

Even the towers looked different. He had done something to the shape, made them sharper, smoother. The magic of the gods, she mused.

It was no longer her castle in the mountains. It was his. 

She wondered if he had at least left the graves untouched. She had cleared out plots where the stables used to be. Buried as many as she could fit, with the help of the surviving elves. Sera and Minaeve, Dalish and Skinner, Loranil and Fenris, Merrill and Velanna, Zevran and maybe a dozen others. It wasn't enough. 

Immortality and magic was not enough to justify the sacrifice. What is the point if your friends are all dead and you have no one to enjoy it with? What was the point of any of this?

"Welcome home, my love," Solas said, "What do you think?"

I think I am very glad you can't read my thoughts right now, she thought. She ached for a bow. It had been years since she'd last gone hunting. Trailing Solas, fighting to stop him had become her world, and when she lost her arm, she had to adjust. The crossbow instead of the long bow. A short sword instead of daggers. 

And yet, it was not enough.

Warrior's training had not suited her. Cullen had been more frustrated with her in the end than he had any of the other recruits. She had no aptitude. She was clumsy in full armor and useless with prolonged, direct attacks. She was built to be quick. Attack and retreat, fall back and strike from the shadows. Suppressing fire. Distraction. Never the main attack. 

She flexed her new fingers. She wondered what other gifts Andruil's orb had granted her. 

"It looks lovely," she said, grinning, "I hate it."

His smile faltered.

"Yes, of course, you do," he said.

Abelas and the other sentinels kept to their safe distance. They were unwilling to leave but unwilling to come any closer. They assumed she already knew how to control her new power. They assumed the well had unlocked that knowledge and granted her access. Well, she had no desire to correct them. The well would help her, but it would take time.

And time was all she had left.

His people stopped what they were doing to watch her. The great Inquisitor defeated by true love, now the fool, the prisoner. 

"Have you decided where you're going to put me?" she asked. She didn't expect her old room was available. He would have taken that for himself, and she was not sharing. No matter what he said or believed.

"Come, walk with me," he said, "We'll discuss it."

"Perhaps I don't care to see more of your work," she said, "We can talk here."

The muscle in his jaw tightened. She expected a terse reply. He was so good at those. Instead, he forced himself to smile.

"Please, humor me," he said.

He held out his hand and waited. As if he expected her to hold it as they walked. As if she would. As if this was a pleasant stroll through the garden and the world was calm and right and they weren't two hearts eternally at war.

As if he hadn't broken her heart into a thousand pieces, over and over again.

As if.

He knew her too well.

She gripped his palm, let him lead her into the courtyard. He had replaced the six pathetic pots with a real garden. Herbs, mostly, like elfroot and witherstalk, spindleweed, bloodroot and many others, but there were also plants she didn't recognize. She felt the magic curling around them, nurturing them, keeping them alive and any blossoms in full bloom. 

The elves had that much magic to spare. A spell could last as long as the caster willed it to last. It didn't evaporate after a few minutes. There was no veil to chase it away.

Abelas trailed behind, ever the watchful protector. Ellana did her best to pretend he wasn't there, a hand ready to draw his blade if she made a wrong move. 

"You are not my prisoner," Solas said.

"Then I can leave and you won't stop me," she said. She let go of his hand. 

"No, you may not leave," he said, "When I can trust you will not do anything foolish, that may change."

"Then I am a prisoner," she said.

"If anything," he said, "I am yours."

She snorted. He truly had just said that. Of all the foolish, pig headed cliches to spout at her. She had not chased him halfway across the world with the intent to lock him away. She had tried to save him, true, but she had never threatened his freedom. 

"You're the prisoner, but I'm the one who isn't allowed to leave," she said, "You have an interesting definition of prisoner. I'm assuming something has been lost in translation. Common is not your first language, after all."

"Perhaps," he said, "But I suspect you know what I mean and are being purposefully obtuse. When you asked me to stay, I told you I couldn't, but in another world, I could have. We have that other world now. Won't you give me a chance?"

"In another world," she said, "I remember. I find I'm no longer interested in that future."

"I don't believe you," he said.

"I don't imagine you would," she said. 

"Perhaps I deserve that," he said.

"Perhaps you do."

She could feel Abelas' gaze, hot on her back. She could feel his disapproval. Solas had saved his people from mortality. They had been restored. Of course he would take offense at any perceived disrespect. Who was she to stand against their savior?

She had never been particularly good at sensing emotions. She was not a mage. Her talents were more grounded in the physical or in deception, in stealth. One of the unpleasant side effects that came with Andruil's powers was this new sense. She could not read minds the way Solas could, but she could sense more than a bit of what others felt. 

She could probably anticipate dangerous reactions before they occurred. She was very aware of the proximity of Abelas' palm to the hilt of his sword. And as for Solas, he radiated a strange blend of eagerness and sadness. 

Perhaps it would eventually be useful. Now, though, it was an irritant.

"I have rooms prepared for your use," he said, "However, should you abuse my trust, should you harm any of my people, you will find yourself with different accommodations."

"Of course," she said.

"I do not wish to have this war between us," he said.

"That is unfortunate as it's the war you began," she said, "It is the natural consequences to your betrayal. You don't get to demand forgiveness."

"I wouldn't," he said.

"You have," she said.

"Vhenan," he said, and his breath came out in a rush. He sighed. The sound twisted in her gut like shards of glass. Why? Why should she even care? In the end, her pain had meant nothing to him.

His people were all that mattered, and she was not one of his people. He had made that perfectly clear.

"Enough of this game, Solas," she said, "Either show me to this mysterious room or let me go. I'm too tired to listen to any more of this."

He stared at her for a long moment. She felt the touch of his mind again. She felt the familiar press, as though he was trying to peel back the layers, but to her relief, she did not feel anything more than that. Even with all his power, he couldn't read her. 

"Abelas, would you please show the Inquisitor to her quarters?" he asked, at last.

The sentinel actually bowed. 

"Yes, my lord," he said. My lord. And Solas only nodded back. How easily he'd fallen into the role of benevolent king.

"We will speak more when you've rested," Solas said, "Ir abelas, vhenan. I have been a poor host."

"In deed," she said.

And when Abelas lead her up the stairs, she realized she had been right when she asked Solas if he was going to lock her up in a tower. Her quarters were exactly that. A tower with wards Solas cast himself and guards he chose for their loyalty, wards to keep her trapped and the guards to give her the illusion of hope. 

Or maybe the wards were to protect the guards from her. She didn't know.

She didn't care.


	3. Chapter 3

His wards are not as strong as he thinks they are. She learns this on the third night after the well starts speaking to her again. After it tells her what it would take to strip her of her power. After he leaves again, the heat of their argument still thrumming in her veins.

It wouldn't take much for him to take Andruil's power, but it would kill her. He doesn't want to do that. Not yet.

And so, he let's her keep it. 

He let's her. He loves her, after all.

How gracious of him.

The well shows her the pattern of his magic, the strands woven together to make the wards. It shows her how simple it is to tug one of those magical strands. The first ward dissolves. And then, she is free.

The guards don't see her until it's too late. She leaves them unconscious in the tower, alive. A gift for him. She doesn't have to kill his precious People. She is merciful where he is not. 

No one looks at her. No one stops her. They even let her saddle up one of the horses. No one would dare take a horse if they didn't have permission, so they assume, and most don't remember she has two arms now instead of one. 

No one realizes she's gone until it's too late. She rides out the front gate.

She has never felt so alive.

She senses the moment Solas realizes she's gone. She is halfway down the mountain and the snow is thick. 

The power is a heady rush she isn't quite used to. She feels something twinging at the edge of her thoughts. Surprise. Anger. And finally fear. It rolls over her, wave after wave. He knows.

She feels him reach for her thoughts, slamming against her walls and falling back. She feels how little it would take to breach them. If he was just a bit stronger. If he had just a little more power.

If. 

But he isn't. He doesn't.

And she feels wonderful.

 

When she camps on the Exalted Plains, something changes. That night she dreams and she is not alone. He is like a stone, dropped into a pool.The Fade ripples around him. 

"Where are you," he demands.

The light pulls into him, making him brighter, sharper, more real. The rest of the Fade dims. Shadows chase the edge of her vision.

"Get out," she says, and she draws her bow. 

The sylvanwood bow forms from nothing. The bowstring is made of shadows, and the arrow is black and not entirely solid. It drags through her her fingers like smoke. But it is solid enough it can hurt.

"We are back to open hostility, it seems," he says.

"So we are," she says.

He waves a hand and the bow turns into marigolds, of all things. She plucks the blossoms off and grinds them to a paste under her heel. His face doesn't so much as flicker.

She considers trying again, but it is futile. He is still a dreamer and she is not. She is outmatched. 

"Where are you?" he repeats.

"What soul have you eaten to buy your way back into my dreams?" she asks. And he smiles.

When he doesn't answer, she wakes, her heart beat thrumming in her chest at an impossible pace. Andruil's power is not enough.


End file.
